THE canvas rattled on the mast,
As rose the swelling sail;
And gallantly the vessel passed
Before the cheering gale;
And on my First Sir Florice stood,
As the far shore faded now,
And looked upon the lengthening flood
With a pale and pensive brow:
"When I shall bear thy silken glove
Where the proudest Moslem flee,
My lady love, my lady love,
Oh, waste one thought on me!”
Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cell,
With none to soothe or save;
And high above his chamber fell
The echo of the wave;
But still he struck my Second there,
And bade its tones renew
Those hours when every hue was fair,
And every hope was true:"If still your angel footsteps move, Where mine may never be,
My lady love, my lady love,
Oh, dream one dream of me!"
Not long the Christian captive pined!-
My Whole was round his neck;
A sadder necklace ne'er was twined,
So white a skin to deck;
Queen Folly ne'er was yet content
With gems or golden store,
But he who wears this ornament,
Will rarely sigh for more;—
"My spirit to the Heaven above,
My body to the sea,
My heart to thee, my lady love,
Oh, weep one tear for me!"
Row on, row on!-The First may light
My shallop o'er the wave to-night;
But she will hide in a little while,
The lustre of her silent smile
For fickle she is, and changeful still,
As a madman's wish, or a woman's will.
Row on, row on!-The Second is high
In my own bright lady's balcony;
And she beside it, pale and mute-
Untold her beads, untouched her lute-
Is wondering why her lover's skiff
So slowly glides to the lonely cliff.
Row on, row on!--When the Whole is fled,
The song will be hushed, and the rapture dead;
And I must go in my grief again
To the toils of day, and the haunts of men,
To a future of fear, and a present of care,
And memory's dream of the things that were.
VOL. 2.-25
ONE day my First young Cupid made
In Vulcan's Lemnian cell,
For alas! he has learned his father's trade,
As many have found too well;
He worked not the work with golden twine,
He wreathed it not with flowers,
He left the metal to rust in the mine,
The roses to fade in the bowers:
He forged my First of looks and sighs,
Of painful doubts and fears,
Of passionate hopes and memories,
Of eloquent smiles and tears.
My Second was born a wayward thing,
Like others of his name,
With a fancy as light as the gossamer's wing,
And a spirit as hot as flame,
And apt to trifle time away,
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay,
Or very gayly grave;
And far too weak, and far too wild,
And far too free of thought,
To rend what Venus' laughing child
On Vulcan's anvil wrought.
And alas! as he led, that festive night,
His mistress down the stair,
And felt, by the flambeau's flickering light,
That she was very fair,
He did not guess-as they paused to hear
How music's dying tone
Came mournfully to the distant ear,
With a magic all its own
That the archer god, to thrall his soul,
Was lingering in the porch,
Disguised that evening, like my Whole,
With a sooty face and torch.
WHEN Ralph by holy hands was tied
For life to blooming Cis,
Sir Thrifty too drove home his bride,
A fashionable Miss,
That day, my First, with jovial sound,
Proclaimed the happy tale,
And drunk was all the country round
With pleasure or with ale.
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